


Into the Woods

by executrix



Category: Firefly
Genre: Bondage, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unlike Buffy, Simon and Captain TightThird <b>do</b> have time for Bondage Fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Woods

_Y’know, you’ve got a willing slave,  
But you just love to play the thought  
That you might misbehave…_

“It’ll be a tight fit,” Zoe said, as Mal and Jayne angled the chair onto the mule with the other supplies from the Porterville market. It ended up mostly upside down, with sacks of soybeans underneath.

“The mine boss had a chair like that,” Jayne said. The look in his eye suggested that it was not a happy memory. Mal revised, upward, the dimension of the chore he’d have to offer to get Jayne to help him muscle the damn thing down the ladder to his cabin. Mal pushed his hands deeper into his pants pockets, making the pockets bulge out further as he tucked away the contents.

The chair was made out of some kind of light-colored wood, with a stout slatted back, arms, a seat that swiveled above a four-armed, wheeled base. The varnish looked sticky, but didn’t feel it, and splashes of color here and there suggested decades of alternating enthusiasms for painting and stripping furniture.

After lunch, once he’d finished the dishes, Simon opened the hatch to Mal’s cabin and climbed down. He was going to roll down his shirtsleeves and fasten the cuffs but decided really, why bother? “I heard you bought some new furniture,” he said.

He had an unobstructed view of the acquisition, because Mal was sitting on the old chair, at his desk, doing some accounts. Simon spun the swivel chair around. “It’s interesting,” he said. “We didn’t have this kind of vernacular design on Osiris. Wood was so expensive that it would be used in…” he didn’t get to say “…a much more sophisticated manner,” because Mal cleared his throat and asked him, “Do you trust me?”

“Absolutely,” Simon said unconvincingly.

“Good. Strip.”

This seemed innocuous enough even if perhaps four minutes earlier than it would have occurred spontaneously, so Simon strode from the ladder to the bed and took off his clothes. He had just aligned one shoe parallel to the square of folded clothing on the floor, and was in the process of standing up, when Mal bowled the new chair at him, neatly clotheslining him.

Mal bustled to the chair’s new location, pulling the ribbons out of his pocket. He tied Simon’s right wrist and then his left to the chair arms. Then, with more leisure, he slipped a blindfold (black velvet, embroidered with gold eyelashes that Mal didn’t think were all that much more exaggerated than the real ones) over Simon’s head. Locks of hair spiked up, and Mal fought the impulse to smooth them down.

 _Six months back, Mal got tired of the time he invested thinking about Simon and figured the best strategy was to go for a Camel. One hump or maybe two, then you’d be stocked up with water for a good long while._

“Shen me?” Simon said, although yellow subtitles reading “What.The.Actual.Fuck” were nearly palpable in the air.

“I can do anything I want to you,” Mal said. “Anything. You’re pinned there. Helpless.”

Mal stroked Simon’s chest, where breathing was going on, but not easily. He was enjoying the chance to just look at Simon without getting looked at back, because usually a tumble with Simon was like getting your wallpaper hung by a squad of octopuses.

 _To Mal’s mind, that was a product of Simon’s effete upbringing. Mal thought of sex as a ravening beast that you’d just ignore until you couldn’t any more. Then you’d give it—not whatever rations you could spare, because Mal never thought he ever lived in a way where there **was** anything to spare—but the least you could get away with to make it retreat for a while. Whereas Simon probably built—no, hired an architect to build--it a pointy-roofed little house. And when it came running at the rattle of the can opener, he’d feed it gourmet Ravening Beast food and put a silver plaque engraved “Fluffy” on its collar._

Simon swallowed. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, crossing his legs in a doomed effort to look casual. But then, to really sell that would have taken an actor who could make you read porn by flashes of lightning. “The phrase ‘both hands and flashlight’ comes irresistibly to mind.”

“You’re blushing,” Mal said. “Looks good next to the smooth creamy parts. And some of you” (the part poking up at that enviable young-guy angle) “is tending toward purple. Dunno, looks maybe dangerous.” _Mal had the luxury of not wondering if his own equipment looked equally apoplectic, because he had the twin advantages of having his clothes on and Simon not being able to see anyway._

“Yeah,” Simon said. “That’s why they spell it f-u-c-h-…”

Just to show he could, Simon pushed the chair toward the back wall. Then, feeling guilty that Mal might think he didn’t enjoy his present, he paddled back. He could hear Mal moving back, out of the way of the casters, so he put his feet down to brake where he figured Mal would be. He sent out a foot on an exploratory mission, and gave a triumphant huff when he located Mal’s boot and slid his toes as far up Mal’s shin as he could manage, crimping them along the way to add a little variety to the caress.

“You’re not hatin’ this, are you?” Mal asked unctuously. “’Cause, if you are, and I mistook you, say the word and I’ll let you up.”

“Well, I’d wave a hand nonchalantly and say, no, I’m not hating it,” Simon said. “Except…”

 _Although, Mal noted, he had managed to rotate his left arm enough that the wrist rested on the chair arm, and Mal could see the veins inside his arm, blue as if Simon had scrawled them there to cheat on an anatomy exam. When they first met, Mal might have denied that Simon would ever do such a thing. But, even before the Ariel affair, Mal realized that Simon had already pulled off a big score. Stealing River added up to a whole lot of bobble-headed doll runs._

Mal leaned over, and measured about two fingers down and a finger over from Simon’s earlobe, and bit down, and was rewarded with a long gasp that proved him right about not even looking for a gag. _Because if you lost the snark, you also lost the sound effects._

The swivel chair, being a swivel chair, took off at an unpredictable vector. Mal had to grab on to the chair arms, and by association, Simon’s wrists, to stay in place. When the chair halted, he dipped his head to kiss Simon, who arched up into the kiss. _For a brief moment—until he shut down the thought because he didn’t think of himself as someone who went around kissing fish—it reminded Mal of a trout leaping up into the sunlight._ Before Mal could pull his hands all the way back, Simon laced their fingers together and squeezed.

Mal pushed the chair toward the bed, and sat down behind the chair, running one hand sideways along Simon’s collarbone, the other hand dragged vertically between the slats. For some reason, each hand felt different. Mal closed his eyes and breathed meditatively, then sat up and snapped his eyes open. _Because, really, why keep a dog and bark yourself?_

Mal pushed the chair a little forward, and took off his boots. Then he took his pants off, to get some room to operate. He turned the chair around, and spent a little time licking, nibbling, and listening to Simon moan and carry on. Mal considered just kitting up, sitting down and sliding, a frequently adopted position because that way both of them could count it as “on top” in the track they weren’t keeping. Although that was on a chair that didn’t have a mind of its own, like this one, which tilted back, leaving Simon at about a 45 degree angle to the bed.

Before the chair could slide away and cause any real damage, Mal pushed down on the chair arms, pulled the ribbons loose, and decanted Simon onto the bed, also taking advantage of the occasion to get rid of the rest of his own clothes.

Even after Mal pulled off the blindfold, Simon kept his eyes shut, and burrowed into Mal’s shoulder. He wrapped his legs around one of Mal’s, and after a breathless interval came not at all neatly (on a micro level, replicating Mal’s clothes splashed all over the vicinity) and then crashed out. Mal, feeling mildly aggrieved, wondered if after taking all that trouble he’d have to get himself off after all.

“Thank you,” Simon said a little later. “That was wonderful. God. So intense. For a while, I wasn’t worried about **anything**. I feel like I blacked out for a moment.”

“Naah,” Mal said. “Just a nap. You do that sometimes.” Simon stretched, wriggled, and reached a hand down. He flipped over and dove into an inartful, grateful, heartfelt blow job lacking in artistic impression. Which was just fine with Mal, _Simon not having to show off his usual 263 positions of Japanese yoga. Because if Mal wanted a Companion, there was a perfectly bad one right nearby that he was ignoring._

**Author's Note:**

> "Tight third person" is a narrative voice that is nominally third person but reflects one character's perceptions--in this case, Mal's rather unreliable narration.


End file.
